


Cut to the Feeling

by thehorrorinsymmetry



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Kiss, Hair Washing, M/M, Martin cuts Jon's hair, Trans Martin Blackwood, post 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehorrorinsymmetry/pseuds/thehorrorinsymmetry
Summary: Cutting someone's hair is actually something that can be so personal, or: Martin is tired of Jon's shaggy look.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 26
Kudos: 302





	Cut to the Feeling

“You need a haircut.”

Jon blinks at him. “Pardon?”

“A haircut.” He eyes the too-long strands that fall across Jon’s face, partially covering those dark eyes. “You need one.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I believe it would be rather difficult to find a barber in this town at -“ the daft bastard actually checks his watch “- 7:19 in the evening.”

“I could do it.”

Jon pauses, his brow knitting in that way it always does when he’s truly taken by surprise. “Have you cut hair before?”

“Have you gotten a haircut before? It’s starting to look like maybe you’ve just been growing that since birth.”

Jon sends him a glare that is far less dignified than he’s probably going for. “For the last time, I am three months younger than you, I have actually had a number of haircuts in my time.” Jon huffs, brushing his fringe from his eyes. “But fine, it has reached a rather annoying length, it would be nice to have this out of my eyes.”

Martin blinks. Jon said he could cut his hair. Is Jon going to let him cut his hair? “Right now?”

Jon takes a pointed look at the book laying forgotten in Martin’s lap. “Is there something more important for you to be doing at the moment?”

He looks down, pretends to consider the option of continuing the book when he’s somehow wandered into this strange new territory. He shuts the book. “What would you like done with it?”

Jon frowns. “A haircut?”

He bites his lip, takes a moment to ensure he won’t smile. “Alright, so if I just shave it all off you’d be fine with that?”

Jon glares at him. “You’ve seen my hair before, just - just do what you like.”

“Alright, yeah, I -“ He stands up and tries not to think too hard about how easily Jon had said that. “I’ll just grab some stuff and - just grab a seat.”

He leaves, walking to the bathroom before he can make a proper fool of himself. He gathers some towels, his comb, and a pair of scissors he finds behind the mirror, pausing at the handful of products he sees. He wonders if this was Daisy’s favourite brand of toothpaste, how long it’s been since her hair was long enough to have need of the blue ponytail sitting next to it. 

The mirror creaks as he swings it shut, leaving him alone with his reflection. It’s hardly a surprise, he’s seen himself since - since everything, but - he looks awful. He takes a breath, feels how his chest expands to accommodate the air until it starts to ache. “Jon?”

“Yes?” 

He pokes his head out and spots Jon in the kitchen. “Did you wash your hair this morning?”

“Oh - no, no I didn’t.” Jon shakes his head. “Should I take a shower?”

“No, don’t worry about it.” He pops back into the bathroom long enough to grab the bottle of shampoo they’ve been sharing since they arrived. 

Jon is perched on a stool in the middle of the kitchen when he returns, posture stiff, gaze between him and the bathroom door. “I wasn’t sure where you wanted me.”

“Oh, ah - in front of the sink the sink, maybe?” He drops his armful on the counter and smooths his t-shirt down as Jon stands up. 

“You don’t need to wash my hair, Martin -“

“- S’okay, really. I’ve got to dampen it anyway, may as well.”

Jon looks as if he’s about to argue, but his shoulders drop all at once and he stands up silently and moves the stool to the sink, not quite looking at Martin. He sits back down on the stool, stiff as a board.

Martin wraps a towel around Jon’s shoulders and rolls a second that he places on the edge of the counter. He presses a hand to Jon’s chest to encourage him to lean back, careful to push the towel under Jon’s neck. “Is this comfortable?”

“Not particularly, no.” He wraps his hand under Jon’s neck and tries to adjust the towel. Jon puts a hand on his arm, meeting his gaze. “Martin, it’s fine - I’ve just got a crick in my neck, that’s all.”

He sighs. “Perhaps if you’d spent less time rolling around the bed and more time actually sleeping you’d feel a bit better.”

“Oh, that’s a brilliant idea, thank you Martin.”

He laughs, tries to lean into the normalcy, the glorious constant of Jon’s sarcasm budding even now as he brushes Jon’s hair back. “Close your eyes.”

Jon does so instantly, like he hadn’t needed to think about it for even a moment. Martin runs the tap and takes a moment to look at Jon as he waits for it to heat up, taking in the gnarled pink scars, the bags underneath his eyes that have just begun to shrink since they first arrived. Brushing Jon’s fringe back one more time, he fills a cup with water. “This might be a bit hot.”

Jon hums. He pours the water over Jon’s head, starting low, watching the grey strands darken as the water soaks in. “That’s a lovely temperature.”

He nods and pours some shampoo into his hand. “This was always my favourite part of getting a haircut.”

“Mm,” Jon leans into Martin’s hands as he begins to work the shampoo into a lather, rubbing his thumbs behind Jon’s ears. He digs his fingertips down against Jon’s scalp, does it again when Jon’s breath catches. “It always felt rather - a lot of touching, for a stranger to be doing it.”

“Is that why you always just let it grow out?”

“Not exclusively, no.” Jon sighs, rolls his head into Martin’s hand. “It just never seemed worth the time.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to let the comment pass by, to not say something that would just put Jon on edge. Instead, he massages his fingertips into Jon’s scalp, makes loops and zigzags and nonsensical patterns that draw out the sweetest little noises from Jon, breathless hums that he can’t possibly be aware of as they’re drawn from him. He wants to stay here as long as he possibly can, wants to pull all of the stress from Jon until his shoulders no longer sag the way they have done since Gertrude’s departure. Until it really is just them sharing a home in this tiny Scottish village because this is where they want to be with nothing to hide, nothing to hide from.

“Have you done this before?”

He blinks, heat flaring through his face when he realizes Jon is watching him. “Ah, no, no I haven’t. Am I mucking it up?” 

“No, not at all,” Jon holds his gaze for a moment before shutting his eyes once again, his eyelids heavy and slow to close. “You’ve lovely hands.”

“Thank you.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as he turns the water back on, half hoping it will suddenly be ice cold when he dips his fingers in the stream. Watching the suds slide down towards the drain, he takes his time to rinse Jon’s hair. “C’mon, your neck’s gotta be killing you.”

He cups the back of Jon’s neck and remains still as Jon wraps an arm around Martin’s waist to pull himself up. Jon looks at him, quiet, damnably close to eye level even on that little stool. He grabs the towel off the sink and drapes it over Jon’s head unceremoniously, the bright green cotton covering Jon’s face. 

The towel shifts as Jon huffs. “I suppose you’ve never dried anyone’s hair either, then.”

Martin allows himself to grin. He starts to rub the towel over Jon’s head. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

He lifts the towel up and has to bite his lip at the barely perceptible upwards tilt to Jon’s lip, the soft, open gaze Jon gives him, his hair sticking up every which way. “Indeed.”

He clears his throat, brushes his hands through Jon’s hair until it begins to look reasonable. “Well, I’m glad you’re letting me do it, in any case.” Jon’s gaze is steady on him, seems to pierce right through him just as it always has but also - not. Different in a way Martin can’t quite put his finger on. “Right, how much of this am I allowed to chop off?”

Jon blinks. “However - however much you want to, I suppose.”

He swallows and picks up the scissors. “You have surprisingly few opinions about your hair.”

Jon frowns, his brow twisting as if Martin had just called him daft. “It’s hair.”

“Yes,” He steps behind Jon and indulges himself with a smile. “And you’re you.”

Jon cranes his neck and gives him a look. “What does that mean?”

“You once told me anyone who puts anything in their tea is wrong.”

“With the amount of sugar you put in yours, you’d think you were adding a bit of tea to flavour your sugar.”

“Watch it, I’ve got some rather sharp scissors right now.” He snaps them shut a couple times, revelling in the soft snip of the sharpened metal. “Regardless, my point was that you’re a man of strong opinions and you are not disproving me right now.”

Jon huffs and turns back around. “I’ve _correct_ opinions.”

He tugs at a stray strand of Jon’s hair, brushing his hand over Jon’s head before he can get more than an indignant grunt out. “Mhm, now stay still.”

Jon does, posture stiffening once again as Martin grabs his comb and slowly draws it through Jon’s hair. The strands, still damp, slide through the comb smooth as silk.

The absurdity of this situation hits him rather hard, coming to him all at once as he struggles to bring the scissors to Jon’s head. They’re in Scotland - in the middle of nowhere, _Scotland_ \- because they’re hiding from entities whose scope and power may as well be endless for all that he can comprehend, because Jon himself went into hell and out-powered them to bring Martin back to - to this plane? To Earth? 

The point is - after everything they’ve been through, all of the pain and loss and incomprehensible strangeness they’ve been through, cutting hair should be easy. And yet - 

And yet here he is, nearly shaking with the power of cutting Jon’s hair. Jon has never been particularly vain - not about his hair, at least - but neither has he been one to ever give himself to anyone. Martin wishes, with a heavy pang that squeezes at that ever-present tightness in his chest, that he could tell Tim and Sasha about this. That they could see Jon now. 

He lines the comb up with a section of Jon’s hair and closes the scissors around it with a decisive snip. The strands fall easily, landing on the towel around Jon’s shoulders, on the front of Martin’s shirt. He lines the comb up again, then cuts. Lines up and cuts. It’s fast to lull him into a rhythm, the gentle snip cutting into the quiet kitchen as bits of grey accumulate on Jon’s shoulders. 

Slowly but surely he works his way to Jon’s side, to his front. Quiet, more patient than Martin has ever seen him, Jon watches him. He tries to keep himself focused on the task at hand, but his gaze invariably finds its way to Jon’s, to those dark, knowing eyes that have seen him - truly, fully seen him - more than anything else in the world. He takes a deep breath and only just refrains from giving Jon a particularly ridiculous fringe. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He shakes his head and lowers his hands. “You’ve got your thinky face on.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I’ve a thinky face?”

“Several, in fact.” He brushes Jon’s now significantly shorter fringe down so that it’s just resting on his forehead, far too short to hide that gaze. Ridiculously dashing, even with the remaining bit of uncut hair at the side of Jon’s head. 

“What?”

He gives Jon a small smile and steps to his side, just out of sight. “Nothing.”

Jon huffs but remains otherwise quiet, leaning ever so slightly into Martin’s touch when he runs his hands through the last bit of hair left to do.

It’s short work now, simple after having done the same action so many times. Part of him wants to slow down, to stretch this moment out, to have Jon warm and alive under his hands as long as he possibly can. 

He wants - he wants. He wants to, but Jon has been sitting still on the stool for long enough already. He doesn’t. 

Rather, he finishes up in a matter of minutes. It’s not perfect, not exactly, but it’s - it’s good. It’s shorter than he’s ever seen on Jon and even from this angle it draws out the sharp cut of his cheekbone, is far too short for any pretense or hiding the mottled scars that mar his skin. 

Martin puts the scissors down. He runs his hands over Jon’s head once, twice, watching the waves of grey rush through his fingers. “All done, I think.”

He pulls the towel off Jon’s shoulders, half registering the mess at their feet, and lets himself put his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “I think it turned out rather well, just - remember I haven’t done this before, yeah?”

“Thank you, Martin.”

He squeezes Jon’s shoulders. “You’re welcome, but - hold that thought until you see it, maybe.”

He eases his grip, slow, not wanting to lose the contact. Before he can convince himself to let go, Jon’s hand comes to cover one of his own. His fingers are warm as they slide under Martin’s, Jon’s thumb moving gently along his knuckles. 

“Thank you,” Jon twists around, hand still gripping Martin’s. “Thank you.”

Martin stares at Jon. He’s so close that Martin can see every shade of brown in his eyes, can smell the shampoo - Martin’s shampoo - that he himself had just washed through Jon’s hair. “Jon,”

Jon holds his gaze. “Thank you.”

He leans in, brings his hand to Jon’s cheek. Jon leans into his touch, thumb still moving on Martin’s hand, gaze still holding Martin’s. It takes barely anything for him to press a kiss to Jon’s forehead. 

Jon squeezes Martin’s hand, his other coming up to clutch at Martin’s arm, and takes in a ragged breath, deafening in the quiet of the kitchen. He kisses Jon’s temple and holds him tighter, closer, until Jon’s shoulder digs into his torso. Kisses the edge of his cheekbone, the gnarled skin just below that. 

Jon tilts his face up and kisses Martin. He leans into Martin, kissing him like he was drawing a breath, pulling at Martin as if there was any space left between them. Martin pulls his hand from Jon’s so he can cradle Jon’s head, can hold him close and kiss him with everything he’s been holding in, can kiss him and kiss him and kiss him - 

The stool squeaks against the floor as Jon stands up. He’s tall, tall enough that Martin almost loses his mouth, has to shift his weight to his toes - just a bit, he’s always wondered - but then Jon is there, is _everywhere_ , hands on his back, body pressing his back against the counter as Jon licks into his mouth. He slides his hand up and threads his fingers through Jon’s hair - his short hair, the hair that he let Martin cut - a soft sound escaping him without a thought.

Jon tightens his grip and breaks the kiss only to lean down and press a kiss to his chin, nose at his jaw, pressing his face against his neck. He’s bent over Martin, crowding him at an awkward angle against the counter, holding him tight. 

He wraps his arms around Jon’s neck and tries to catch his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment. “Jon,”

Jon raises his head, close enough that Martin’s eyes struggle to focus. Gently, he drops his forehead to Martin’s and slides his hands down Martin’s back until they come to rest on Martin’s waist. He kisses Martin’s cheek, a gentle press of his mouth that he trails down to the edge of Martin’s. “Thank you, Martin.”

The words are pressed into his skin, a mark given to his body by Jon’s, shining under the gentle puff of Jon’s breath for all that it would be entirely invisible to the eye. He nods, nose brushing Jon’s.

Sliding his hand down, he cups Jon’s cheek and takes in the smooth scar tissue and healthy skin alike beneath his fingers. Jon’s cheek is warm beneath his hand, flushed and alive. He’s no idea how long they’ll be here, how - how any of this will turn out, but right now he’s here - in the middle of nowhere, Scotland - with Jon in his arms, the two of them safe, even if only temporarily. He can’t just let that pass by.

He kisses Jon.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading! this was written in a fugue state after binging tma in under two weeks, it made me feel many things. 
> 
> special thank u to jess for introducing me to tma in the first place and also reading this and putting up with all of my ridiculous headcanons love u


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